


Not the one to mourn (until now)

by littlebastard



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, James Bond/Q implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-15
Updated: 2012-12-15
Packaged: 2017-11-21 05:15:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/593849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlebastard/pseuds/littlebastard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's never been the one to mourn for a long time. But when suddenly his composure went to hell the least he can do is keep control over the way he mourns.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not the one to mourn (until now)

**Author's Note:**

> So far I think this is the only fic I have guts to publish. I'm not a native speaker and I've checked this text, but I'm pretty sure there are mistakes, so if you see any just tell me, please. Also, this is not beta'd.  
> I know, I'm a cruel person, if it makes you feel better know that I hate myself too for angst in this. (And I'm not even sure if I managed to include all the angst I meant to.)

He’s never been a man of many feelings, nor the one to wear his heart on his sleeve  
(the latter not only because of his nature, but also because his job required it).

On the contrary he’s always been the one to take the last sip of cold, black, bitter, coffee – the one to end  
(business, relationship, assigned task, affair or somebody’s life) things and never look back.

Efficient. Kind of noir hero, obstinately denying his heroism  
(unless it’s been needed to manipulate).

He’s been the man to look into gun barrel and never even flinch, the man to rip another one’s throat with a sharp knife without thinking about blood spatter on his clothes  
(except for deciding either to throw them out or try to clean them),  
finally the man to unlock, reload, aim, pull the trigger, reload again in a series of smooth movements learned and sunk deep into him, better than even breathing.

Cold, fast, strong, effective, self-sufficient, loyal and (irrespectively of what people thought and how great disappointment awaited those who underestimated him) intelligent and smart.

James Bond, double-oh status, No. 7, never been the one to mourn longer than strictly needed (a trait he learned in his early days). However there’s always the first time, even for a man whose employment is murder and who accepted death as his mistress.

Which is why said man was sitting on the wooden floor of his expensive apartment in Chelsea, smoking fortieth cigarette this day (or maybe it was already past midnight) and drinking what must’ve been his fifth or sixth tumbler of his favoured whisky. 

Obviously he didn’t bother attending funeral  
(he also didn’t bother giving that title to lowering an empty coffin into a deep hole).  
The reason being that he preferred to honour the memory of his quartermaster  
(and memory of feelings and affection he allowed himself to develop for the brilliant man)  
by being destrucive, fucked-up, best-agent-of-Her-Majesty as per usual

(because nothing changes).


End file.
